For the last time as a writer for the Observer, I am twiddling my thumbs in front of a blank Google Doc, furnished only by three familiar headers: name, article and section. For someone who prides himself on his writing ability, I often find myself frustrated by the journalistic style. As a perfectionist, I take a long time trying to find the right phrasing of a sentence or stringing together quotes to tell a story. As a grammatically challenged person, I wince when a section editor calls out my weird run-on sentences or misaligned tenses. As a proud hater of the AP Stylebook, I feel sad when I cannot use an Oxford comma or italicize an album title. But right now, there is a different type of paralysis running through my writing muscles. I thought that finally being allowed to use first-person pronouns would grant me literary freedom, but in reality, all of these “I’s” are forcing me to confront the reality of senior year.
From the very beginning, I knew that I wanted to be a part of the WCHS newspaper. During the first week of freshman year, I was frantically searching for Newspaper Club in the club spreadsheet. Out of desperation, I emailed the Observer (I forgot we even had a Gmail address) to ask how I could join. Trevor Gardemal kindly informed me that I have to take the journalism class, and on the registration day for sophomore year, I excitedly selected Journalism A as my first course.
In retrospect, J1 (and sophomore year in general) was a fever dream. Many random memories have ingrained themselves into my mind: Radical Write tests, making bread pudding for my Princess Diana presentation and reading a really powerful article from “The Baltimore Sun” about two homeless teens named Iven and Gary. I was pretty shy when I first stepped into Room 243 — I went to middle school in Silver Spring, so I felt disconnected from the social circles that formed during Hoover or Cabin John — but through the year, I finally found a sense of community in the J.
I loved being a part of the Observer so much that when I caught up in another scheduling mishap during the summer of junior year, I knew in my gut that I would continue taking Journalism over AP French. That is a decision I don’t regret, even though I might be a little unprepared for the French exam next week.
So many small moments and rituals have stuck with me, I can list them off forever: walking in five minutes late every day with Tafa, locking in for various classes with Clara, gossip sessions with Ananya, reminiscing about the social dynamics of the Beverly Farms Elementary School Class of 2017 with Julia, being editor buddies with Kalena (and feeling guilty when she edits more articles than me), humoring Ceci when she randomly screams my name across the room, and making sure to say goodbye to Mrs. Zitnik every day. I won’t miss turning in my online articles two months late or the expired peppermint syrup in the cabinet, or being asked why I Venmo’d a teacher for Chipotle, but I am very proud of all the goals I’ve accomplished in this class. I’ve written for all six sections, won Observer Awards and even been on the front page—something I could’ve never imagined doing when I was in J1.
To be honest, I don’t think I have a grand epiphany to share or a wise adage to give to future WCHS students or Observer staff. I heard so many platitudes during high school that I never truly took to heart: living in the moment, taking risks, things of that nature. But eventually, you will realize that those sayings have some merit — that the memories you make and the friendships you form are what you ultimately remember and hold onto.
